Not Dead
by short-skirtbluescarf
Summary: Sherlock lures John back to Baker Street for an emotional and then fluffy reunion neither will forget. A S3 spoiler-free Femlock. First from John's POV then Sherlock's.
1. John

Everything else had been prepared. There was just one last thing to do, the most difficult of all her plans. The last several months of her plotting and planning didn't include a reunion with John Watson but how could she not? How could she return to London for the first time in two years and not seek out the only man she could ever care for?

No, even he never knew about the foreign feeling that had just begun to invade her mind weeks before her disappearing act. They had been building for months, perhaps years, but had been ignored until she knew that a faked suicide was her only way. By then it was too late to act on the few butterflies in her stomach and impossible to curb her night time curiosities. And maybe he wouldn't even want her now, as anything.

There was only a twelve hour slot before she had to get back to work and one thing to do.

* * *

"Visiting the grave always seemed to help dad after mum had passed," Mary gently assured John.

He squeezed her hand as they continued making their way to the black polished rock bearing his former best friend's name. Where would he be without Mary? How had he come to trust and love her so quickly? It had always been so unlike him to let others in, and now she had changed his whole world- changed him, really. Everything they had been through in the last year and a half was a reminder of why he was making the right choice tonight. By replacing a bad memory with a good one, his life would be started anew tonight, in more ways than one.

Together they stared at the rock. A silent five then ten minutes went by before John moved from Mary's side to place a hand on the grave stone, exactly the way he had done that gut-wrenching first time. Though he tried to speak some sweet phrase of admiration or respect not a single word was managed. Mary knew the visit was over when he suddenly turned and walked away from the grave. She quickly followed and was surprised when he took her hand a bit tighter than before.

When they got back to her car, he noticed the folded piece of white paper held beneath the windshield wipers. The small square was plucked from its place without Mary seeing it at all. Quickly, John opened the note, both hoping for and dreading the initials at the bottom he caught from his peripheral vision.

**Don't be so down. I told you, it was all just a trick. -SH **

With a pounding heart and highly raised pulse, Watson shoved the small paper into his pocked then got into the car.

"Are you alright, my love?" Mary asked from the driver seat.

"Yeah. Just want to get out of here is all," he replied with a forced smile, hand nervously smoothing down the hairs of his moustache.

* * *

They were almost home when a red light caused them to stop beside a news stand. Most of the paper's covers read THE GAME IS BACK ON. A cold chill ran through his body from the words alone. "The game is on". What _she_ used to say. What she usually said just before dragging him out of the flat for another near death experience- which he somehow always welcomed with a large grin and excitement he had never known until his time with her.

The light turned green just as he looked into the cab beside him going the opposite way. Very rarely did John ever actually look into the cabs. They were always just black cars that reminded him of days gone by. But for some reason unknown to even himself, he used the extra effort to look inside this one. His skin paled and breath hitched as their eyes met. The dark figure in the backseat fit the silhouette he had memorized long ago. It all happened in just a matter of seconds but left him silent the rest of the way home. Mary parked the car in front of the flat they had been sharing for the last six months.

John had just joined her at the door when he pulled on her hand.

"There's somewhere I have to go," he quietly but confidently announced.

"Alright." A confused pause. "Do you want the car?"

"No. I'll just take a cab."

"You _hate_ cabs," Mary said with a slight laugh in her voice.

"Well, today is a day for getting over fears."

"That's good I suppose. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Of course," he answered with his own ghost of a smile, kissing the soft hand still in his grasp.

He wouldn't miss tonight's date for the world. She only thought they were going to grab a posh meal. Little did his wonderful woman know that he'd been carrying a small red velvet box all day in his trouser pocket. Despite whatever else happened today, he was going to pop the question tonight.

"I'll be along in a while. If it gets too late, I'll just meet you there."

"Fine. Don't be too late," she grinned with a playful tone. "It's about time you took me somewhere _nice_."

A genuine chuckle escaped him. He was always taking her to nice places. She was the very first person in the word he honestly wanted to spoil. The first he was truly protective over. And, most of all, she was the only human who had been able to make him feel less alone since…

"See you then. I love you." That last bit came out more serious than he intended but she didn't seem to mind. Her smile even suggested that she was pleased with the solemn reminder.

She was in their building by the time a cab pulled up. It was only three in the afternoon now. Their reservation wasn't until seven. Surely his little _adventure_ would be over by six. He could get ready in thirty minutes then meet her there, no problem.

He opened the cab door and got settled. It had been a good year since he attempted his last cab ride.

"Where to, sir?"

There was a short pause and a deep breath taken before JohnWatson proclaimed, "2-2-1 Baker Street."

* * *

It was after the forth knock on 's door that John accepted that she wasn't home. He would have loved to see her again but could never bring himself to come anywhere near this place. Until now.

The staircase had never looked so threatening before. Instead of the joyous mystery as to what _she _was doing up there, he found himself nervous to face the old furnishings and wallpaper that used to be home. Yet some irrational fear of the unknown still tugged at his mind. What if… No. Impossible.

He had been imagining things all day. Perhaps he would have been better off not going to the grave site. His mind always played tricks with him the rest of the day, without fail. For a while, standing there a step away from the first stair, he contemplated whether or not he was actually going mad. What a laugh that would be. A get off from work and life card, that would be lovely. Throw all rational thought out and create a new world- only involving Mary and himself.

Silent echoes of her violin came down the stairs, his imagination running wild again. John closed his eyes to decide what to do next. If he left now, he'd never know and just go on with life. But if he forced himself to face his greatest fears, face his past…

"One last time," he whispered to himself.

Up the staircase he went, one painful step at a time. One memory per breath. One new emotion per heartbeat. He felt as if he had fought some sort of battle after walking off the final step. A line of light was under the door, the last of afternoon light shining in the room.

But wouldn't Mrs. Hudson have closed the curtains out of respect?

John Watson suddenly felt as if everything were wrong, intriguingly wrong. This was the exact sort of thrill he used to live for. The kind _they_ used to live for. The kind he had missed these last two years.

He fumbled for his keys in his pocket then flipped the pieces of metal around the ring until the most unused of them was found. His key to the old flat. With shaking hands, he pushed the key into the lock. After the few seconds it took to convince himself to continue, he completed the task of unlocking the door. Another deep breath was taken before he worked up the nerve to place his hand on the doorknob.

What awaited him on the opposite side of the door?

_Just get it over with_, he thought with a small growl.

The knob turned, he didn't even feel himself push the door open, then he took the first step into 221B.

It was like someone had crushed all air from his lungs. Someone had wrapped their hands around his neck to choke him into a state of panic. Someone may as well have shot him in the chest that moment, for his reality had somehow been paused for several seconds. And that someone was standing at the window, looking down onto Baker Street the way he had seen her do a thousand times.

John didn't even bother closing the door. How could he? The ghost before him forced every other detail from his mind. His world, his very life, was suddenly reduced to the confines of the old sitting room. In his moments of shocked horror, all of John's attention fell onto the figure standing in the window. When nearly a minute had passed in silence, the woman took an audible breath; her shoulders slightly lifted only to fall as they were.

"I almost came to you multiple times. The timing itself was just never right. There was still too much to do," she announced in her quiet pained voice, the exact tone she had used on the roof of 's. "Missed you." She never moved a muscle as she spoke.

He finally pulled out of his shocked stupor enough to speak, "You… You're alive."

"Got my note then?" As if seeing her with his own eyes wasn't the real proof he needed.

"But you-" A choked murmur. "I watched you… You died."

"No. I made it look as if I had died."

Finally she turned to face him, a movement which made him just as breathless as before.

She wore the black wool coat that was in every memory of her, the form fitting one with her usual black heeled shoes. Traces of one of her short skirts peeked out from under the coat as she took a few steps towards him. The dark short curls from his dreams bounced as his gaze drifted down to light hopeful eyes hidden beneath dark thick lashes. Oh how he'd missed those features: sharp cheekbones, small pointed nose, triangular chin, tiny waist, shaped legs, and delicate gloved hands. But most of all the heart-shaped blood red lips he used to fantasize over. It was her, in the flesh.

"Sherlock," he whispered her name in half a gasp. The pleasant wave of relief soon turned to the anger she had expected. "Why the _hell_ did you… Do you have any idea how much pain…" A frustrated grunt. "You died. I _saw_ you. Even visited your grave. Five times the past two years. Two. Years, Sherlock!"

"I know," the woman quickly replied with downcast eyes.

"You could have had Mycroft send me a note. You could have sent a text. You could have-"

"Let you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade all die?" The words caught him off guard and obviously confused him. "That was Moriarty's trade. My life for all three of you. If I hadn't faked my death, gunmen were following the three of you. Waiting to take aim and fire."

"You… You died… for us?" A single nod answered his question, her eyes serious and thoughtful-probably replaying the details he never knew about. "You died so we wouldn't?"

"And I remained so until all of his criminal web, every last piece of scum, paid for their sins."

"You killed them all?"

"Some. For most of them I simply arranged meetings between the criminals and others who were looking for them. Each of Moriarty's men had a small group wanting revenge. It was simple really."

John looked accepting for a moment, as if all would instantly be forgiven. But then rage welled up inside him again. He took the remaining steps that separated them and got into her face.

"I was half in love with you," he hissed, staring intently into her eyes. "I cried for days and was completely lost for the first six months."

"And what pulled you out of it?" John gave another dangerous questioning glare. "Six months is a specific timeframe. What happened that sixth month that changed everything?"

He paused, ran a hand through his short hair, then broke their stare for the first time.

"I met someone." It was spoken quick and soft, nearly a whisper. "I met someone and she changed my miserable excuse of a life."

"It's serious then?"

"Of course it's serious," he growled, fiery eyes returning to hers. It didn't take long to notice the smallest trace of sorrow that filled her face. Was she… _jealous_? Sherlock Holmes, dead for two years only to return to a taken Watson, jealous?

"That's good. I'm… I'm happy for you, John. Truly happy."

Though her performance would have fooled anyone else, maybe even Mycroft, John saw right through. Another session of silence filled the room before she ruffled her curls and began to nervously pace. A speech always followed pacing, always. John took a few deep breaths in attempt to calm himself and waited.

"I didn't expect you to… I never wanted you to… The last thing I wished for you was-"

"To _wait_ for you?" John finished with great irritation. The nerve of her. That she would even think of it. That the thought would even cross her mind.

"Things will probably never be the same between us. I know that! It will take some time, if it happens at all."

"It? You mean us? A _relationship_?"

"No. The restoration of the _friendship_ we shared."

"Well you can bloody scratch that off the Christmas list!" he chuckled manically. "How can you possibly expect me to trust you after-"

"I don't!" she yelled in return. "That's why I said 'if it happens at all'. Pay attention."

John paced a few more times in deep thought until stepping nose to nose with her once more, her standing slightly taller.

"If you were a man I'd punch you right now."

"If _you_ were a man…" She couldn't say it.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock sighed, walking back towards the window.

"Oh no you don't! If you're going to be _ballsy_ enough to come back from the dead, drag me over here, and confront me like this," he walked towards her and spun her around to face him. "You'd better get everything out in the open, missy!"

He'd never called her missy before but it felt good. She had always been the one in control, the leader, the strong one. Now, he wanted her to see the new John Watson. The grief-stricken man she had created and left to die himself. He never expected tears to begin flowing from her stern face, those stubborn green and blue eyes swimming with emotion he never knew her capable of.

"Well then?" he demanded, his tone ever so softer than before. The sight of her like this moved him in such an unexpected way. He should have known one look at her—the passion still ignited between them, the unbroken connection between their kindred spirits—would bring back everything he felt for her.

"I nearly loved you," she admitted, as if the words were the single most important secret of her life- maybe they were. "Did you know that, doctor?" He watched her eyes roam his face, lingering at the new addition just between his nose and tightly pressed lips. "I had avoided all forms of affection for years. And then you. I ignored it for months and it was only after I was in too deep that I accepted it enough to…" Her soft fearful voice trailed off.

He'd never once seen her so exposed like this before. So human. Well, other than their last moments shared before she did the unthinkable. But it was all to save him. To save _them_. The woman who had pushed away all thoughts or desires concerning love did all this as an act of love. It hurt like hell, absolutely. But still. He couldn't help thinking, as he locked teary eyes with at the best person he knew, that she had done it more for him than the others. Of course she wanted to save the landlady and the DI. But did she have more reason to save _him_?

Her eyes told him everything she couldn't begin to say with words. How could she? Nothing about affection usually came natural to her. Yet here she stood, the only woman he had every genuinely wanted as his own, confessing feelings she didn't fully understand herself. Of all the woman he had ever dated, claimed, and shagged, it had always been her.

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighed while pulling her into his arms.

He only caught a glimpse of her expression as he pulled her into his chest, a comical mixture of relief and uncertainty. They had never been physical but John was feeling more like his old self with every word shared between them. Shortly after, he took her damp pale face between his hands and stared into those large, nervous eyes. As if asking permission, he stilled. When she closed her eyes, he knew they had somehow returned to the same page.

Sherlock sighed into his deep kiss, their first. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck as their mouths opened against eachother. His hands moved from her neck to her waist to pull her hips into his, a gentle moan escaping them both.

"Your girlfriend," she breathed against his ear as his lips found her neck.

"It's always been you."

"But you-"

John claimed her again before she could mouth before she could argue. Yes, he was going to cheat on his dear Mary. But their relationship would be ended after tonight, no matter what he did. If he didn't end it in the next several hours, she would leave from jealousy or lack of trust. Besides, his heart had always belonged to the ingenious, irritating, and irresistible Sherlock Holmes.

"I want you," he gently announced between heated kisses.

"Now? But we just-"

"Now." Another few passionate kisses. "But I live with her now so we can't-"

Sherlock suddenly pulled John by his coat collar, leading then down the hall to her room. The two burst through the door with a serious of erotic noises and wandering hands. Her coat was first to hit the floor revealing the tight purple dress shirt he had always secretly adored. In return, she yanked off his coat then wasted no time in pulling his shirt out from his trousers. That's when he ended their kissing.

"Isn't everything a bit… dusty?"

"I moved in yesterday," she grinned against his lips. "Fresh sheets and everything."

That's all he needed to know before pulling her onto the bed with him. Both were in minimal clothing soon enough. After his trousers joined the clothes pile beside the bed, Sherlock straddled her doctor. His fingers fell into the deep sea of her curls as her own fingers traced the lines of his face. He couldn't put into words how wonderful her skin felt against his. That soft skin and black lacey undergarments felt like heaven under his touch. Her fingertips grazed over his newly formed stress lines then down to his lips.

"Still angry with me?" she asked, her expression serious and concerned. John still wasn't used to this facial expression of sentiment on this particular face. It would pass all too quickly, he knew. He would be lucky to get a month of sappy Sherlock; and that would be _really_ lucky.

"Yes," he answered without thought. "But not as angry as relieved."

"And you're certain you want to do this tonight? We could wait until things with you and your… until you've officially ended your current relationship- the honorable thing to do."

"What would _you_ know about honorable," he teased, pulling her body flush against his.

So began the romantic relationship between he and his consulting detective. All the years of waiting to become more followed by years of waiting for her to be alive became less painful as they wore eachother out. She was shy and a bit hesitant at first but all the walls she had built seemed to come crashing down along with their cares and worries. By the time of their release, both felt more at home than ever before.

It was hours later when John's mobile buzzed from his pocket on top of the clothes pile.

"That'll be Mary," he sighed, not wanting to face the responsibility and consequences of his actions just yet.

"Your…"

"Yeah."

A completely naked Sherlock propped her head upon her arms atop his chest before asking the big question. The question that had been a burden to them both since their long awaited physical endeavors.

"Now what?"

"_You're_ the genius," John laughed.

"And _you're_ much better at all this… _relationship rubbish_ than I ever hope to be."

"You don't know that," he smiled, kissing her forehead. Her soft eyes asked the dreaded question again. "Now… We pick up the pieces, put them back together, and then move on."

"Should I…" She was nervous again. "Expect you to return to Baker Street anytime soon?"

John pulled her body up his so their faces were side to side once more.

"Only if we can share a room."

"It'll have to be your room," the woman replied with all seriousness.

"_My_ room? You've always had the master bed-"

"Yes, _your_ room. Mine has far too many… _things_. My room has too many things to share with a man."

"Not just any man, I hope."

Neither wanted to fight so soon, even if it was only a play row. He watched as she searched his face, a content smirk on those perfect lips. Was he still just JohnWatson to her or was he more now? As if he really didn't already know the answer to his own question.

"No. Not just any man. _My_ man," she proudly announced before pressing her lips to his again.

* * *

**My first attempt at Femlock in celebration of the brilliant S3E1. Not exactly how it would go character-study wise but it was fun to write. There would be much more arguing, pain, and John is a jerk for doing that to Mary but as Moriarty says "oh well". Cheers! **


	2. Sherlock

**Here is Sherlock's side. LOVED the new episode and couldn't resist finishing it with all the new feels. Sherlock is always more difficult to write but always so rewarding. Anyways, enjoy and let me know what you think! Cheers!**

* * *

Instead of jumping directly out of bed at seven, as he had done almost every day since his return to London, John simply remained on his back staring at the ceiling. Lost in his thoughts, he prepared himself for the emotional day ahead. Mary was at work until ten so he planned to take the car out for groceries. He'd return to their flat, put the good away, then much about until it was time for her to come home. She had promised to accompany him to his least favorite place in all the world, battle sights included. Then they would come back home to change for the night he had planned.

He had already wooed and won her but that hadn't been enough lately. The only way he knew to calm the pain he had grown so accustomed to was to replace the immense sorry with even greater joy. There was only one last thing to do before he could move on.

"I'm asking tonight," he quietly announced to himself, the words feeling strange yet exciting on his lips.

* * *

She waited beneath the tree she stood at two years ago today, when he gave the speech that broke her heart. His tender words had echoed in her mind for months. It had been almost an hour since she'd arrived near her own grave site. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for Watson.

If Mycroft's analysis of his daily life were correct, Mary would be getting off work soon. John should have been here already. Surely he wouldn't bring anyone to this place, the place he didn't know she had considered theirs for the last two years. She had only seen him from afar five times since her plunge so it would be good to see him again today. Tonight- if all went according to her plan.

Sherlock was about to give up on the whole mad plan all together. If he wasn't here by now, he wasn't going to come. Perhaps bloody Mycroft was right. JohnWatson had moved on. But surely not. Surely it took more than two years to forget someone so dear so quickly. And, if she let her walls fall down enough to admit it, he was the person most dear to her heart and most deserving of her respect. Then again, she had been wrong about these sort of things before. Emotions were still rubbish as far as she was concerned; they would only slow her down.

The torn woman took one step away from the tree before gravel popped and cracked at the cemetery entrance. A car. Quickly, Sherlock backed into the safety of the tree as far as possible to stay out of sight. A fairly new red Mini Cooper drove up the vacant road.

_So you brought her after all_, she thought with a pounding heart. Seeing John was enough to raise her pulse but she had yet to see the new girlfriend. Well, her inner dialogue said "new" but the woman had been there long enough to pull John from Baker Street.

A pretty blonde woman climbed out from the driver side as John remained out of sight for a few more heart beats. As soon as their walking paths met, he took her hand. Without realizing, Sherlock's small gloved hand made a gentle fist, as if someone had taken it the same moment. She watched as they walked towards the black polished rock. It soon became obvious that neither felt a pair of eyes staring directly at them. Once the perfect combination of comfortable and brave welled up inside her, Sherlock found herself standing at the edge of the tree once more- to hear any conversation that was certain to happen.

"Visiting the grave always seemed to help dad after mum had passed," the blonde announced, maybe to make John feel better. There was no reply. Then again, why would there be? Her dead mother had nothing to do with how John was feeling that moment.

Sherlock noticed her own balled hand when John gave his girlfriend's a squeeze. The two took their last few steps towards the grave then stopped one above the place her casket should have been. She watched Watson's body language, every last detail. He seemed both nervous yet managed a brave front. Though his being here meant that he still harbored feelings for herself, John seemed much more calm than he had been his last visit. Why did he seem more at ease? Perhaps another aspect of sentiment that she would never understand.

Once they were settled, Sherlock quickly ran towards the car. She hid behind taller monuments and thick trees until at the windshield. From her coat pocket she pulled a folded piece of paper- part one of her plan. Neither had noticed the dark figure moving among the green and grey of the scenery. _Goldfish_, she smiled to herself, Mycroft's words.

The sly woman returned to her former position, just out of hearing distance beneath the large tree. A silent seven minutes went by before John moved from the woman's side to place a hand on the grave stone, exactly as he had done that gut-wrenching first time. The memory had remained fresh in her mind. Sherlock's sense of hearing pinpointed her former flatmate and waited for him to speak.

Expected words of longing and grief never came. Instead, the doctor simply stood frozen for another few breaths before suddenly turning away from the false grave. His companion wasted no time in following him, John's hand taking hers again. Why did he feel the need to hold her hand? The man had just stood on his own for ten bloody minutes. More sentiment.

John and blonde woman walked back to the car, her to the driver's side once more. A certain thrill filled the clever woman when John's dull expression turned to one of shock, his skin growing as pale as her own. Those blue eyes grew large, pupils dilated, as his jaw dropped. He started to say something to blondie, but decided against it at the last second. Instead, he opened the twice folded small piece of paper and read her little message.

She hoped his mind was still sharp and hopes high enough to read between the lines. _Come to Baker Street_, Sherlock silently begged as if willing the words to John's suddenly racing mind. He was still slightly cute when confused- an expression that still made its way into her dreams every now and then.

Her note was immediately shoved into his pocket before he climbed into the vehicle out of clear sight. John's mouth didn't move once the door was closed, a good sign. His little mate started the car but didn't touch the acceleration pedal. She turned her head just far enough that Sherlock couldn't read her lips. _Damn_.

John nodded with a faked smile, his shoulders moving as if he was still trying to shake the chills away. Her note had moved some part of him. _Perfect_. He finally spoke, probably something vague and untelling. Those large hands made their way up to the horrible moustache he had already kept six months too long. _That thing will have to go_, she smirked as he nervously smoothed the hairs down.

* * *

As soon as the car pulled out of sight, Sherlock began her search for a cab. One pulled over her first try. She mumbled the address, her excited mind already elsewhere. There were a few things to do before John's return to Baker Street. Only a few. She had plenty time to clean up a bit, warn of the expected private reunion, and then wait for John to come home. Maybe she could slip in a few minutes of practice.

Sherlock hardly noticed the cab's sudden stop. A red light. Her fingers tapped on her bony knee, impatient to complete her chores. After an irritated roll of her eyes, the woman glanced out her window. How had she not seen it until now? There had been an entire minute and forty seconds to notice.

In the car directly beside the cab was John. Only the street divider was between them, enough distance to mistake someone in a passing cab for a ghost, or so she hoped. For the second time that hour, she mused at the initial look of horror that filled Watson's face. The moment she broke the already brief stare, her cab began to move away.

_Bloody hell that was close. Did he see me? Could his thinking he saw me ensure or destroy my plan? He was right there. That's… That was the closest we've physically been since- _

"Could you please hurry a bit more?" she asked as polite as possible, doing her best to hide all emotion from the clueless driver.

Ten minutes later, she walked into 's flat. She still needed to fix the dear thing's lock on the door. If _she_ could break in with minimal effort, so could any other Greg or Mycroft who tried. The woman was in the kitchen—she always seemed to catch the woman in the kitchen—pouring herself a fizzy drink. She hummed a merry little tune without a care in the world, without the faintest hint that someone had snuck in.

"Hello," Sherlock smirked with horrible anticipation of the small scream that followed.

"You have to stop doing that, young lady!" the old woman scolded before pulling the detective into another agonizing embrace. "But oh, how I've missed it. How I've missed _you_!"

"Yes. That'll be more than enough hugging for one week. Possibly the entire month," the younger quickly announced in disgust.

"Have a seat. Shall I put the kettle on?"

"No. I'm afraid I can't today. Expecting someone."

"Oh? Company already? I didn't think you'd have anyone over for at least another week or two," she mused with that annoying grin plastered to her face. It was as if Sherlock had come back from the dead- only to the older woman, she genuinely had.

"Yes. I came to ask a favor, actually," the clever woman sighed, noticing every changed detail of the rooms she used to know as well as her own.

A new scrape on the floor- probably from moving the old table out or the new in. A different biscuit tin, the other had been badly dented and completely expired ages ago. New white ceramic tea mugs filled she shelf that used to showcase ancient candles never used. And lastly the aged beaded curtain; it had continued its pattern of thinning- one rope of beads tearing off every four months.

"Anything for you, dear," beamed, prepared to do anything for the miraculously returned renter.

"I need you to stay downstairs. Outside is even better. Anything you need to do this afternoon?"

"Am I safe?"

"Absolutely. Just doing an experiment and wouldn't want anything to go wrong. Now that I'm back, I wouldn't want my first kitchen trial to cause you any harm."

"Oh, I see."

The old woman was attempting to understand. It was a bit rude of Sherlock to ask her to leave her own house on such short notice. Then again, she didn't want to make the poor thing feel unwanted or upset so soon after her return home. It didn't really make sense but she trusted the girl, now more than ever. Just three days ago did the girl tell her the reasons behind her rather heartless actions. Mrs. Hudson now felt indebted to the renter. She had been planning to pop out sometime soon for her monthly magazines anyway, one issue including an exclusive of her favorite telly drama.

"No problem at all. What time would you like me to pop out?"

Sherlock looked over at the clock then quickly did the math.

"Finish your drink, throw on a jacket, then be on your way. The drug store a few blocks down is having a sale. Perhaps your precious magazines will be there. Do take your time… But please hurry."

* * *

John Watson got out of his cab with a rather decided expression. He'd probably fought with himself the entire ride over. To go or not to go? To continue in silence or ask the driver to turn around. She wondered what lie he had told his woman in order to escape her for an hour or two. Or would he bring her here as well? How interesting it would be to have them both enter the flat.

The door was opened then entered with haste, John clearly determined to fall right into her plan. Sherlock braced herself for the first telling creaks of the staircase but was disappointed to hear knocking instead. What the devil did he want with Mrs. Hudson? She wasn't there of course. Her timing had been perfect. Everything was happening just as predicted, the potentially fatal cab incident proving to have helped John's decision. Four knocks then a long silence. Would the good doctor turn back now?

Maybe it was wishful thinking but Sherlock thought she had heard him say something downstairs. Talking to himself again. Same old Watson.

The pleasant creaking of the staircase began, a noise she never thought she'd long to hear. His steps were unusually slow but that was to be expected in this particular situation. All planning had once again been rewarding. Now that all parts of the plan were over, it was all up to him. His reaction and their next conversation had the power to make or break everything she had worked towards for the last two years. Surely he'd accept that everything she had done was to bring them back to this place on a day such as today. After all, it was the anniversary of their parting.

She remained staring out the window as life below continued in slow motion. Just a few more steps. Three. Two... One. A deep breath. From the other side of the door. Keys clinking against eachother. She could tell by the sounds of scraping metal that he was nervous, hardly unable to fit the trembling key inside the lock.

Another ragged breath from just outside the door. She closed her eyes. The turning of the door knob. A silent breath against the window. The first sounds of the door opening followed by quick steps into the room. His anxious footsteps into their old flat.

Part of her wanted to see the dumbfounded expression up close, third time today. Yet she could move a single muscle. Not even when she imagined herself turning to face him did her limbs obey. Did he look on the outside how her twisted insides felt? She couldn't form words until the soft pants across the room and behind her faded.

The long silent pause was to be expected. Why hadn't she planned this bit? Of course he would be shocked into a silent stupor. She thought about spinning on her heels with a wide smile and arms spread wide, as if to say _"Here I am! Not dead!"_. No, that wouldn't do. She could say something clever, and maybe a bit flirty? No. She never did flirty before so why start now? Possibilities flooded her racing thoughts until one solution proved potentially better than the rest. _Honesty_, such a hateful word. John hadn't even bothered closing the door.

"I almost came to you multiple times. The timing itself was just never right. There was still too much to do." Hell, did she sound as pathetic to him as she sounded to herself? And when had she become soft? Then she decided that if she was going to be honest, she was going to do it all the way. "Missed you." She was still frozen in her spot at the window.

Shifting of his weight against the floor filled the silent room until he finally spoke.

"You… You're alive."

_Quick, be clever. He can't know how nervous you are. You've always been strong. Be strong now._

"Got my note then?"

"But you-" It came out a whisper, almost to quiet to understand the words. "I watched you… You died."

She was suddenly glad that she hadn't turned to face him. His pained expressions she could feel would hurt too much to actually see. Again, she should have predicted all this. It was now or never. She had planned this perfectly, so now she had to face the man she had driven in her path once more. Their first stare was always going to hurt. No matter how she planned it all.

"No. I made it look as if I had died."

Finally she turned to face him, a movement which made her deep breaths even with his.

Same John from her dreams, good and bad. The moustache was impossible to ignore but besides the hideous detail… He looked older, maybe the facial hair again. But his eyes also looked aged since their last meeting. There was a war in her soldier's tired eyes. He had been his own enemy for months- two years. The light she had seen shining in them earlier today had faded. His stiffened stature was defensive, to be expected when facing a ghost. His hair was parted slightly different than usual, again making him look older. Same coat and trousers from before. New shoes but in the same style as the ones they had worn out on their cases.

"Sherlock," he suddenly whispered her name in a beautiful half a gasp, like she had only heard uttered from his lips one other time. The shock soon turned to the anger she had expected. "Why the _hell_ did you… Do you have any idea how much pain…" A frustrated grunt. "You died. I _saw_ you. Even visited your grave. Five times the past two years. Two. Years, Sherlock!"

"I know." She couldn't look at him. Was she actually ashamed? For what- saving his life? No. She knew there would be consequences for how she had done things.

"You could have had Mycroft send me a note. You could have sent a text. You could have-"

"Let you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade all die?" If she was going for honest, she had to speak while she had the nerve. "That was Moriarty's trade. My life for all three of you. If I hadn't faked my death, gunmen were following the three of you. Waiting to take aim and fire." Too graphic? Telling enough? Hell, this was more difficult than expected.

His face fell into a new kind of shock as he breathed, "You… You died… for us?"

She gave him a single nod as answer. A few details of that wicked day managed their way through her thoughts. They had been put at bay for so long until just then. Another consequence of having him alive today. Now.

"You died so we wouldn't?"

"And I remained so until all of his criminal web, every last piece of scum, paid for their sins."

"You killed them all?"

"Some. For most of them I simply arranged meetings between the criminals and others who were looking for them. Each of Moriarty's men had a small group wanting revenge. It was simple really."

A proper conversation. This was good. _Was_ it good? He was asking and she was telling. Wasn't that how this sort of thing went? Even now, she could see his inner battle in the blue eyes she fancied more than she ever let on. Sherlock didn't anticipate the few steps he took towards her, closing the gap between them. Actually, he was rather close. Closer than she imagined being to him so soon. But that dangerous look in his eyes. _That_ certainly wasn't good.

"I was half in love with you," he hissed, staring intently into her eyes. A wave of unexpected and foreign emotion tugged at her, made her chest tighten and pulse raise. "I cried for days and was completely lost for the first six months."

"And what pulled you out of it?" John gave another dangerous questioning glare. Explanation for the question seemed needed. He still missed the obvious. "Six months is a specific timeframe. What happened that sixth month that changed everything?"

He paused, ran a still trembling hand through his short hair, then broke their second intense stare.

"I met someone." It was spoken quick and soft, nearly a whisper. Sherlock already knew this. She had already seen them together. Twice. "I met someone and she changed my miserable excuse of a life."

The woman couldn't help asking. It was a question that had intruded her busy mind several times, more than ever as of late.

"It's serious then?"

"Of course it's serious," he growled, fiery eyes returning to hers.

Keeping her face calm and almost emotionless was becoming distracting. He couldn't see the slightest traces of what she was feeling- these ridiculous new emotions she hadn't been prepared for. _If only she had been a man_, she joked with herself. Her brief amusement faded as the reality of the situation seemed to further crush her. He was serious about the blonde. She was too late. After hunting down and fighting, and sometimes killing, criminals for the last two years… Still too late.

"That's good. I'm… I'm happy for you, John. Truly happy." A half truth. Alright, mostly a lie.

Sherlock quickly became more nervous than she knew how to hide. Her performance had been flawless until now. Now knowing what else to say, but knowing she needed to say something (anything), she ruffled her curls. Then of course came the nervous pacing. What to say? What to say? Multiple phrases raced from her mind to the tip of her tongue before a better option was selected. Then finally, the irritating truth proved the best option.

"I didn't expect you to… I never wanted you to… The last thing I wished for you was-"

"To _wait_ for you?" John finished curtly.

_Alright, I deserved that one. I deserve anything he feels like saying, or yelling, or even screaming. Damage control. Damage control that will work now added by damage control for the next week._ His impatient glare thickened. _Make that the next month._

"Things will probably never be the same between us. I know that! It will take some time, if it happens at all."

"It? You mean us? A _relationship_?"

"No. The restoration of the _friendship_ we shared."

"Well you can bloody scratch that off the Christmas list!" he chuckled manically. _That_ was a bit cruel. Didn't she deserve a chance? After all, she did die to keep him alive. "How can you possibly expect me to trust you after-"

"I don't!" she yelled in return. "That's why I said 'if it happens at all'. Pay attention."

John paced a few more times in deep thought until stepping nose to nose with her once more. Their proximity took her breath for a single second. Did he notice? "If you were a man I'd punch you right now."

"If you were a man…" She couldn't say it.

"What?"

Was now the time to confess? Would he even listen if she tried to tell him how she felt? Somehow, years ago, he'd managed to chip the layers of thick ice that covered her emotions. Unlike most of the female population, she had been happy with her work. Married to it, in fact. She had told him that their first night as flatmates. Then he had to show—no, teach—her the importance of caring and affection.

They had never touched intimately. Neither had ever felt the need- until those last fatal days. It took rational reason to keep her from coming off St. Bart's roof for a single kiss that day. When she found herself begging him to listen to her last call, she had also found herself longing to relive a few nights that could have been different. They had drank a few times, gone out a few times for entertainment purposes, and even felt something different after solving extremely difficult or life-threatening cases. But she had never been able to grant him the faintest hint that she had-

"Nothing," Sherlock sighed, returning to her safe spot at the window.

"Oh no you don't! If you're going to be ballsy enough to come back from the dead, drag me over here, and confront me like this," his steps towards her were hard against the floor and quick. Angry once again. John spun her around to face him. "You'd better get everything out in the open, missy!"

He'd never called her missy before. She had always been the one in control, the leader, the strong one. Now, she wanted nothing more than to hide her face- the emotions that couldn't be wiped or acted away. Again, the darkness returned to the face she had missed so much. This wasn't John Watson. This was John Watson hurt, angry, and possibly going to walk away from her forever. She probably deserved it.

I've _lived without him for two years. I could probably move on if this was the end. Maybe._

"Well then?" he demanded.

Sherlock stared into his eyes, never wanting to forget the way she felt with him so close. If this was her last chance to say it, so be it. It was going to be useless, he was with her. But she couldn't live with herself if she didn't get it out. That sort of contained secret held a dangerous power over a person. Even a high-functioning sociopath like herself.

"I nearly loved you," she finally admitted. "Did you know that, doctor?" Her eyes never left his face, even lingering at the new addition just between his nose and tightly pressed lips. "I had avoided all forms of affection for years. And then you. I ignored it for months and it was only after I was in too deep that I accepted it enough to…" Hell. She couldn't say it.

She had never felt so exposed like this before. Well, other than their last moments shared before she did the unthinkable- for him. For all of them. But firstly for him. If only he knew.

Another several silent seconds passed before his face changed again. Softer this time. The woman was preparing for the cold familiar blow of rejection when he released a held breath.

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighed.

Without warning, John pulled her against him, closer than she had ever been to him. How was she supposed to react? The only times she had been this close to bodies were when she was examining the deceased or sassing someone to get her way. This was a different situation all together. One she had never dared to mentally prepare for. It was then that she felt the tears build in her eyes, the ones she had been keeping in so well until now. Something about the way he had pulled her into him moved her in a most unexpected way. Shortly after, he took her damp pale face between his hands and stared into eyes. Why did she have to be a sappy crying woman? Now of all times!

She felt his body freeze against hers. What was he doing. Wait, she'd seen that look before. This was the way all the blokes on telly looked at a girl just before they snogged then. Was that was John wanted? Was he coming in for the big kiss? Sherlock didn't know how to kiss; she had never needed or wanted to. Oh, this was mad indeed. His face was moving towards hers in slow motion. She had to react. There were only two options. Break or continue the moment.

Taking a second leap of faith for her doctor, she closed her eyes and waited for his lips to touch hers. And when they did, it was the most extraordinary thing.

She couldn't help a soft moan during their kiss, their first. Her arms wrapped around his neck without her willing them to do so. John opened his mouth against hers only to return his lips to hers, sending unknown chills throughout her body. His hands felt amazing as they slowly moved from her neck down to her waist. Suddenly, his being a man of the world seemed to be in her benefit. Just as the devilish little thought came to her, he pulled her hips into his. His gasp sounded in unison with her own. Then another detail came rushing into her blurring thoughts.

"Your girlfriend." she breathed just as his lips found her neck. Oh, that was lovely.

"It's always been you."

The words surprised her. A satisfying thrill only lasted a heartbeat before the complexities of the issue added up in her calculations.

"But you-"

John crushed his lips against hers again before she could argue. What was he thinking? Wouldn't the other woman be furious and make things difficult for him? That's not what she wanted for her precious doctor.

"I want you," he gently announced between heated kisses.

The words he said and what he meant were two different things. Even emotionally daft her knew that. John didn't simply mean he was choosing her over the blonde woman. He was being "delicate".

"Now? But we just-"

"Now." Another few passionate kisses. "But I live with her now so we can't-"

Sherlock smugly pulled John by his coat collar. If this was what he wanted, she had waited far long enough. He didn't have to ask a third time before she lead them down the hall to her room. Sherlock didn't even feel like herself. She felt as if she had just taken a hit of something wonderful, only she was… happy. The two burst through the door with a serious of erotic noises and wandering hands. What had she been missing out on all this time?

He wasted no time in removing her coat. She watched as his eyes brightened at the sight of her attire. _Wait, didn't he like this shirt? I remember him saying one of those compliment things about it ages ago._ She tried to remember but his roaming hands wouldn't allow it. Not knowing what to do, she mirrored his action by taking off his coat. She trusted her first instincts in pulling his shirt out from his trousers, like unwrapping sweets. That's when he ended their kissing, followed by a quick look around the room.

"Isn't everything a bit… dusty?"

_Now_ he wanted to notice what was right in front of him. _Timing, Dr. Watson_, she thought with a smug grin.

"I moved in yesterday," she replied against his lips. "Fresh sheets and everything."

Her answer seemed to satisfy him because the next moment he clung to her waist then pulled her onto the bed with him.

In no time at all, they were only wearing undergarments. After his trousers joined the clothes pile beside the bed, Sherlock grew brave and straddled her doctor. She had seen it done in painfully emotional films before but like the feeling of playful dominance it gave her. His quick fingers gently began pulling at her curls. Sherlock couldn't help tracing the new and familiar lines of his face- what two years had done to him. These new thoughts and feelings weren't as difficult to manage as she always thought they'd be. His hands felt rather wonderful against her body. The mystery of physical intimacy was being solved one minute at a time. They were simply doing with their bodies what they had been doing with their mind for years: silent affectionate conversation and doing their very best to please the other.

Her curious fingertips grazed over his newly formed stress lines then down to his lips, extracting more fantastic sounds from him and equally distracting touches here and there.

"Still angry with me?" she finally asked aloud. The way he stared up at her made some of her nerves return.

"Yes," he answered too quickly. "But not as angry as relieved."

But there was still doubt.

"And you're certain you want to do this tonight? We could wait until things with you and your… until you have officially ended your current relationship- the honorable thing to do."

Never had she planned on any of this. Now that her most secret desires were happening, she found herself wanting nothing more than to do the right thing. She had hurt him enough for _two_ lifetimes, his and her own.

"What would _you_ know about honorable," he teased, pulling her body flush against his. All of her doubt and anxiety faded away with their next shared, deep kiss.

So began the romantic relationship between she and her army doctor. All the years of waiting to become more followed by years of working towards returning to him disappeared as they tenderly wore eachother out. She was shy and a bit hesitant at first but all the walls she had built seemed to come crashing down along with their cares and worries. By the time of their release, both felt more at home than ever before.

It was hours later when John's mobile buzzed from his pocket on top of the clothes pile, a feeling of dread filling her immediately.

"That'll be Mary," he sighed without moving away from her, clearly hesitant to tend to their new problem. Mary?

"Your…"

"Yeah."

Sherlock propped her head upon her arms atop his chest before asking the big question. The question that had been a burden to them both since their long awaited physical endeavors.

"Now what?"

"_You're_ the genius," John laughed.

_A genius yes. In all matter except the heart._

"And _you're_ much better at all this… _relationship rubbish_ than I ever hope to be."

"You don't know that," he smiled before kissing her forehead. She could grow used to those. Instead of asking the hateful words aloud, she simply stared into his eyes again- he had lovely eyes, the light had returned tenfold. "Now… We pick up the pieces, put them back together, and then move on."

"Should I…" She was nervous again. "Expect you to return to Baker Street anytime soon?"

John pulled her body up his so their faces were side to side once more. A good sign.

"Only if we can share a room."

Share a room? As in more relationship stuff? Official… dating… stuff. Well they couldn't very well live together in this room.

"It'll have to be your room."

"_My_ room? You've always had the master bed-"

_Doesn't matter._

"Yes, _your_ room. Mine has far too many… _things_. My room has too many things to share with a man."

A cheeky smirk lit up his face again before he squirmed beneath her. She especially noticed when his hands fondly slid from her waist to her back.

"Not just any man, I hope."

_Oh, John_, her inner dialogue sighed with a slight affectionate grin of her own. Neither wanted to fight so soon, even if it was only a play row. She could look at him all night and it still wouldn't be long enough to decipher how they had wound up here, in this perfect moment she couldn't have ever planned herself.

"No. Not just any man. _My_ man," she proudly announced before pressing her lips to his again.


End file.
